Pay His Honor

By R.Z. Sheppard

The law grinds slowly, but if you still believe it grinds fine, either you have been blessed with an unlitigious life or you are not yet familiar with the novels of Scott Turow, the practicing Chicago attorney who has managed to find the time to write half a dozen books, including the best sellers Presumed Innocent and The Burden of Proof.

Personal Injuries (Farrar, Straus & Giroux; 403 pages; $27) is Turow's latest reminder that Justice is not necessarily a blindfolded matron holding aloft a set of balanced scales. She, or more likely he, is often peeking and open to tempting offers. "The bribery of judges is eternal," Turow gently instructs us. "At common law, before there were statutes and codes, the word 'bribe' meant only this: a benefit conferred to influence a judge."

Robbie Feaver (pronounced favor) practices common law--the more common the better. Both cynic and self-deluding romantic, Feaver is Turow's most expansive creation. He has the needy personality of a Saul Bellow big shot and the clever mouth of an Elmore Leonard punk. Both traits come in handy when Feaver is arrested for paying off judges and decides (in about a minute and a half) that rather than go to prison, he will accept the Federal Government's deal and help cage the errant magistrates.

The setting is Turow's fictional Kindle County, the by now palpable Midwestern arena of his previous best sellers and, fairly transparently, Turow's home turf of Cook County, Ill. For proper distancing, Robbie's outlandish tale is narrated with understated sympathy by his lawyer, a squeaky-clean member of the bar who is named after his distinguished ancestor, the colonial Virginian George Mason. Robbie's foil is Evon Miller, the latest iteration of one of page and screen's most popular new types: the female FBI agent.

It's a match made in Hollywood heaven. Robbie, the irrepressible con man, vs. Evon (her cover name), a repressed Mormon with an Olympic bronze medal. In what sport? Don't ask. Turow seeds his story with delayed disclosures and surprises, including an inspired variation on one of dramaturgy's soundest rules: if you show a dangerous implement in the first act, it must be used in the last.

The plentiful action consists largely of Robbie, wired and miked like a walking Radio Shack, attempting to bribe judges while antsy G-men tape the seductions from parked vans. The distinguished targets come from all walks of life and can be sympathetic inversions of stereotypes. Judge Barnett Skolnick is an elderly, good-natured dimwit who spouts stage Yiddish. Sherman Crowthers is a massively built black jurist who paralyzes attorneys with his battering intelligence. Exaggerated characters? Yes. Caricatures? Never.

Likewise, Robbie and Evon exchange barrages of zingers but are not a comedy team. When the maverick and the dutiful agent eventually come together, the banter deepens into a revealing meeting of minds. Evon discovers her true nature, and Robbie stows his masks and confesses that he is terrified of waking up and not knowing who he is.

Exploring the space between legal necessity and reality's messy urgency is a Turow specialty. Street savvy and emotionally rich, Personal Injuries goes further than his earlier novels in explaining why he splits his time between satisfying clients and pleasing readers. In law there must be a deal or a judgment. In literature the jury can be hung thoughtfully between matters of head and heart.

--By R.Z. Sheppard